Читать книгу Mission London - Alek Popov - Страница 11

6

During that day, many of the employees tried to contact him, but he resolutely refused to see anyone. He wanted to play with their nerves; to leave them with the impression that he knew everything about them and their doings, and that he had no intention of listening to their pitiful explanations. Let them tremble in expectation of his call!

Varadin threw himself into the thorough exploration of the multitudinous drawers and cupboards in his office; the cashbox, the wardrobe and all the other little places where he supposed the spirit of his predecessor might be hiding. Not much was left. People in his profession were secretive and erased all traces behind them, where possible. In the library, the Encyclopaedia Britannica and the ‘Who’s Who’ of 1986 feigned an air of dusty importance. In the draw of the desk lay three lonely paperclips and one used marker. In the safe he found a half-disintegrated washing-up sponge. That looked to be everything. He examined the toilet, tested it and sat behind the big boss’s desk, twisted around this way and that in the armchair to get used to the feel of it. He was almost feeling at home when the red phone rang.

He stared fearfully at it and picked up the receiver.

“Hello!” said a serene female voice. “Already in your workplace, eh? Bravo! Well done!”

“Thank you!” his ingratiating response conveyed little enthusiasm.

He knew the voice well and clearly he could not tell it to go to hell.

“You haven’t forgotten about me, have you?” He sensed an edge of suspicion.

“How could If or get you!” his voice filled with sincere indignation.

“Easily! Some people immediately forget everything, as soon as they land themselves a little mandate,” the subtle accusation rang from the receiver.

“I am not one of them. You know me.”

“We-ell, I’ve been let down so many times,” sighed the voice. “You think you know somebody but when they go abroad – they prove to be a completely different person. Ungrateful people! They imagine they have become untouchable. But they are mistaken.”

“They certainly are mistaken.”

“You are not one of them though, are you?” the voice quavered hopefully. “You know how the things are. You are experienced; that’s to say, you know how to prioritise.”

“I’ve learned that well.”

“I hope so,” there was a pause before the decisive question: “And, how are things going?”

“I don’t know yet. People here don’t look to be on the straight and narrow.”

“I had no doubts about that. They are a bunch of crooks. You must report to me every week.”

“Agreed,” Varadin nodded. “Do not worry.”

“Don’t be so relaxed. You don’t know her yet. She is so solemn! Every time I pass through London, I invite her properly for lunch or breakfast, but she always plays dumb. She is busy. And how is she so busy, if you please? Counting her coins, I suppose. The humiliation I have to endure.”

“We mustn’t lose hope, the stakes are high!”

“Yes, we have to draw her in somehow!”

“Leave it to me,” said Varadin authoritatively.

“If you betray me …”

“Not chance of that, of course not,” he assured her.

“Oh, well in that case, goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

The first number that burst into his mind was 98. For some moments he stared blankly at the phone, then quietly, but passionately, he pronounced, “73!”